


I took you to see the sea

by VesperNexus



Category: The Spy Who Came in from the Cold - John Le Carré
Genre: 4+1, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, some sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 09:18:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13210692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperNexus/pseuds/VesperNexus
Summary: Alec pays attention, because when Jens wants to tell you something, it’s not words he uses.Four things Alec finds out about Jens, and one he finds out about himself.





	I took you to see the sea

**Author's Note:**

> Took some creative liberties with this one. Canon divergent, obviously, because I love happy endings.

**I took you to see the sea**

 

**One**

The beeches have turned. A soft orange, breaking through the dry shrubbery every once in a while. Alec curls his fingers around the cool metal railing, breathing in the gentle breeze.

“Isn’t it lovely?”

Jens’ shoulder brushes against his. Alec smiles at him.

“Yes, yes it is.” Alec watches a flock of birds; black silhouettes against cotton clouds.

“I don’t remember this Germany.”

A long moment passes between them. A thumb brushes against his knuckles and Alec relaxes into the touch, embracing a wonderful sort of calm. He blinks, eyes dry. The sky seems too blue today, and the horizon has become a thin white line eating into the bright green lands below.

“Neither do I.” There’s something in Jens’ voice. Something Alec can’t quite place. “Tea?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there in a minute.”

He feels a little bereft without Jens’ hand against his. Alec doesn’t look back. He focuses on the birds. The whistle of the kettle breaks the silence. He can hear Jens rummaging through the little cupboards in his little flat – their little flat. Theirs. And to think he’d practiced hating the man all those years ago. God, had it really been that long?

He pulls a hand through his hair, following Jens inside. The trial is the last thing he wants to think about.

The tea sits steaming on the table. Jens is relaxed into one of the chairs, eyes far away.

It had taken a long time for Alec to get used to him like this. No tie, rolled sleeves, hair tousled instead of sleek. A smile that wasn’t made up of a thousand half-truths and –

“Have you gotten lost in my eyes, Love?” Oh, and those crow’s feet are unfamiliar and so, so welcome.

Alec grins, taking a seat opposite his partner. There’s something about the slight slouch of Jens’ shoulders which sets him completely at ease. He leans back into his own chair, eyes weaving through the nooks and crannies of their home.

It is neat, cosy. Alec has never been a minimalist, but it had taken him time to adjust to the _life_ of it all. The bookshelves with all those cracked spines, the odd trinkets and tid-bits lining the flat surfaces, the line of wet plates drying on the rack. The hand towels and the dish towels because Alec has only ever used _one size_ and that had frightened Jens comedically. The immaculately made-up bed. The notepads and artworks and drawers that were _just for socks, Alec._ The one top corner of the ceiling that’s always a little dustier because Jens is too short to reach it even on his tip toes and Alec’s still doing his best to get used to the magic of it all. It is a home like he’s never known.

And it’s today, a calm gorgeous day, when Jens tells him a little something more.

“We should frame a photograph.”

Alec doesn’t know why he says it. But the entire flat is one picturesque palace, and there’s a yearning in his chest for something so painfully cliché.

Jens blinks, taking a long sip of his earl grey. He’s been on a binge since Alec introduced him to the wonders of bergamot.

“A photograph?”

Alec nods. “Just the one.”

“… Of what?”

“Us. You and me.”

Jens just looks at him, like he’s still computing. No one visits them, and it would be easy to hide anyway. They know a man with a dark room in his cluttered basement. Alec’s grin grows a little wider. “I used to have photos of the kids. Just lining the shelves. I think it would be… nice.”

“I have never-” Jens clears his throat. “If you like. Of course.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

Jens looks sheepish. “I would be happy to have your face smiling charmingly at me Alec, it has just been so long since I have…” He looks away, and Alec takes a long moment.

“You don’t have any photos of your parents?”

The other man shakes his head, and Alec is filled with a terrible sadness.

“I’m sorry.”

“It is not such a terrible thing Alec,” a sip of tea, “what we took from Germany we left in Canada. After my parents…” a pause. “It was a very difficult time for me, you see. When I left my childhood home I left almost all I had in it.”

Alec looks at Jens, really looks. There’s no sadness in him today, but the urge to wrap him in a hundred blankets is suddenly overwhelming. He isn’t sure what to say.

“I would have liked to meet them.”

Jens smiles a little, quiet smile. “My mother would have liked you, you know. Perhaps I could…” he stands, lithe body rising from the chair in a graceful movement. Sometimes Alec wonders if his lover had been a feline in some other, grand life.

He moves around the table, Alec’s careful eyes watching him stand on his tip-toes, hand reaching for the top of the bookshelf. His shirt pulls along his chest, and the smallest sliver of pale skin is revealed. Alec says nothing as Jens comes back to him, a thin book cradled between thin fingers.

“This is…” another pause. Alec has grown used to this, the time Jens takes to carefully prepare every word, so he is not misunderstood. It is more than slightly endearing. “It is the only photograph I have.”

He slides is across the table, between the steaming mugs of tea.

_Le Petit Prince_

It’s a little worn, a little torn around the edges. The beige has faded into a dirty grey, as has the ink. It feels so fragile in Alec’s calloused hold. He opens it carefully, running one finger along a battered spine. It is so well loved.

The first page is blank. On the second:

_Zu meinem kleinen Prinzen. Immer und für immer. -_ _MF_

The handwriting is neat, a duet of lines with cursive, loopy letters.

“Always and forever…” he mutters, brushing his thumb across the faded words.

“It is falling apart,” Jens’ voice is steady, and it guides Alec as he carefully flicks through the illustrated pages. “But I can never bring myself to have to have it rebound.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“My literature of choice is not limited to Marx and Engels after all.”

There’s another little comment on the last page, messier, as if it had been hastily pencilled in: _Du, ich, das Meer._

“What’s this about the sea?”

“My mother had loved the sea since she was a child. She always promised to take me.”

 _She never did,_ goes unsaid. Alec looks up. “You’ve never been to the beach?”

Jens laughs. It is a delightful, harmonic thing Alec is still adjusting to, like the dishtowels and made-up beds. A part of home.

“Of course I have, Alec. Just not _that_ sea, the right sea.”

There’s something almost cryptic about it. Germany has many beaches, Alec knows, fine white sand and water bluer than the sky. But in that promising looks Jens gives him, something glistens, and Alec knows not to ask anymore.

“Maybe one day I could take you to the right sea.”

It’s the right thing to say.

“Maybe you could.”

*

The photograph is subtle, easy. He’s standing beside Jens, shoulder to shoulder. It might have been a year after the trial. Two separate smiles, one set of dimples, and an angry breeze ruffling their clothes. Out of the frame, Alec remembers, his fingers are pressed against Jens’, and everything feels so, so warm.

 

 

**Two**

Six months after the trial, after Mundt, after Smiley, after his lovely Liz, Alec had found Jens again.

Or Fiedler. Yes, back then, he was just Fiedler.

“Mister Leamas.” His voice had been a little more raw after that final performance. He spoke with the same softness, but even through the chatter of the bar Alec could hear his every word perfectly. “I thought I sent you back home.”

Alec had raised one eyebrow, mouth twisted downward. It had irked him that the stool beside him was no longer empty.

He couldn’t recall the rest of the conversation. Up to the brim in Steinhager and some other cheap London Dry, he could barely focus on the younger man, let alone square him in the jaw.

It was a wonder, he admits even now, that he’d let Jens take him to his little flat and push him into the couch. His shoes were suddenly off, a blanket covering his toes to his shoulders. He’d grabbed blindly for Fiedler, pulling his shirt from his shoulder. A scar, white, faded, years old. He saw something he’d forgotten to ask about.

Alec had passed out happily, to the changed voice of a man he’d almost gotten shot.

Now, in bed, he buries a smile in Jens’ hair. Alec’s chest is warm against his back.

“Awake, Love?” The German murmurs, voice heavy with sleep.

Alec massages his fingers into a jutting hip. “Mhmm.”

Jens yawns, rolling in Alec’s arms to face him. The sun is just coming up, yellow rays broken by the curtain.

“It is still early.” He rubs his fingers against his eyes like a child, and Alec feels terribly in love.

“I know.”

“Perhaps I should rephrase. Why are you awake?”

Alec tangles his feet between Jens’, relishing in the delighted giggle. “Was thinking.”

“I hope you did not hurt yourself.”

He pinches the jutting hip. Jens yelps, laughing into his neck.

“I was thinking about the bar. All that time ago.”

Jens pulls back, hands pressed against Alec’s chest. His pyjama shirt is a ruffled mess around his thin figure.

“When we first-”

“Yeah.”

“You slept on my couch. A mouth like a sailor in the morning. I recall.”

He smiles. “You almost gave me heart palpitations, you remember? I thought I was back-” a pause. “The headache was a bitch.”

“You drank half the bar. Too much for such an old man.” Pinch. Alec kisses a pale forehead.

“You carried me home.”

“I dragged you, Alec.” Jens is out of breath, pleading for Alec to _stop_ between wild laughter. Alec’s hands are relentless, ticking the usually suave man into hysteria.

“S-stop!” It comes out so breathless. “I am sorry!”

It takes a minute or two, but Alec does. “Anyway, I was just…”

“Feeling nostalgic?”

The comfortable weight in Alec’s arms grows heavier as Jens relaxes a little more.

“I don’t remember what we said. I just remember you, sitting at the little table, drinking coffee, smoking at seven in the morning.” _You had that scar you won’t say a thing about._ Jens’ fingers are cool against his cheek. “You looked at me, and it had only been half a year, but you were – you weren’t Fiedler.”

“No?”

Alec shakes his head. “The same clever mouth, sure, but quieter. Remember, I threw up on your floorboards and you fed me something green-”

“It is called a vegetable, Alec.”

He ignores him, “And it’s like everything was muted but you – you were mouthing _discharged_. Discharged. So quickly, over and over and I didn’t understand and I – I was so lost.”

Jens smile fades a touch. “As was I.”

“I guess we both got a little too worn for the cold, eh?”

There is no response. Jens threads their fingers together, looking away.

“Go back to sleep, Love.”

He nods. He isn’t at all tired, but he nods anyway, and feels Jens slowly fall asleep against him.

*

“Jens.”

They are still in bed, and his lover has given up on sleep. Alec has been thinking about the bar, and he has been thinking about that little white scar.

“It has only been half an hour, Alec.”

“Tell me about your shoulder.”

“My…?”

“The hole in your shoulder. Tell me about it.”

Jens is suddenly a little more awake. He looks unimpressed, but Alec has become used to small grumpy German men.

“It is not a hole.”

Alec’s fingers slip underneath his collar. Jens shudders at the cool touch against his bare skin, Alec gently prying down the shoulder of his shirt.

Alec is awfully familiar with the skin Jens hides beneath these clothes, and his white, thin shoulder is certainly no exception. Nor is the scar tissue aligned perfectly at the front and back of it. See, he knows exactly what a bullet hole looks like, in fact, he could probably figure out the calibre of the gun it came from. But that’s not the point.

“You still won’t tell me who shot you.”

Jens’ head sinks into the pillow. “Is it really so important to you?”

“I’ve asked you at least a dozen times about it.”

“Like an old dog with a bone,” Jens mutters back.

And this time, just like all the other times, Jens is silent and avoids Alec’s question with his sly smile and clever words because there are some things he still won’t share. And God, does Alec know what it’s like to need that privacy, but he asks every time because he knows Jens won’t tell him. And this time –

“It was Hans.”

It’s funny how everything is so jovial and warm one moment, and then the air is suddenly sucked dry from the room and it’s all just stale.

The silence stretches like a rubber band on the verge of snapping. There are several things which bother Alec about Jens’ nonchalant statement, and the first is that he still refers to that vile monster as _Hans,_ as if they are old friends. Hans. Hans. _Hans._

“Alec.” His grip around Jens is too tight, and he consciously loosens it before Jens asks.

“He shot you?”

“It is complicated.” Jens doesn’t add anything. Alec tries to quell the anger bubbling between his ribs, struggling to suffocate the wave of fear at the thought that Hans-Dieter Mundt has left his mark on Jens. Has tainted him so crudely.

That’s the end of the conversation. Alec doesn’t ask anymore. Every time Jens had been silent, he had been telling him. Alec just hadn’t been listening.

**Three**

Alec forgets about the scar for a little while.

Well, not forgets, not really. Alec doesn’t forget anything Jens tells him. Rather, he pushes it right to the back of his mind and fills his time with the usual: the farmer’s market, Jens, the local bookstore, fleeting calls to Smiley, feeding Jens his grandmother’s Irish recipes, swimming, counting his grey hairs, and Jens. Always Jens.

That is, until Tuesday. Alec has always known something to be so ominous about Tuesday.

He chains his bike to the pole, pulling his coat tighter around himself. With two hands he grabs the heavy paper bag from the plastic basket, balancing the milk carefully against his shoulder and the cabbages and carrots in the fold of his arms. Jogging up the steps quickly, he reaches the third floor out of breath, knocking on the door with his elbow.

A moment. Two. Alec frowns.

“Jens?” he calls quietly, “You in there?”

Another moment passes, and he considers pulling out his own keys when the familiar rattle of chains becomes audible.

“Hey-” the smile falls from his face when he notices those red-rimmed eyes. Jens’ lips upturn futilely for a second before it becomes too hard. He ushers Alec in, “Jens, Christ Jens what’s wrong? What is it?”

The groceries end up haphazardly on the small marble counter. Alec shuts the door with the back of his heel and pulls the German towards him by the hand.

Jens looks up at him, and it’s that sadness again. The one that’s never really gone away. “Sorry,” he replies sheepishly.

Alec shakes his head, pushing Jens into the nearest chair.

“I’ll put the kettle on, yeah?”

The younger man nods mutely as Alec pulls the coat off his shoulders, quickly hanging it. The tap is twisted, and in a second, cool water licks up the sides of the kettle, before the top is slammed shut and it’s bubbling on the stove.

Alec prepares the tea quickly. Chamomile for this occasion. He rakes his brain as curls of steam rise up around him. _What’s today? It’s Tuesday. It’s Tuesday the twenty first of –_

_Oh._

He almost burns his fingers when boiling water spills over the edge of the mug.

A moment. Alec sighs, bringing the mugs out carefully. Jens is sitting at the little table, exactly where he’d left him. He sits on the other side and weaves their fingers together to rest on the table top.

“Jens.” His partner looks up at him through long lashes. He’s been crying, and Alec is torn. “Jens.”

“It is…” a pause. “Strange, is it not?”

“There’s nothing strange about mourning.”

“He is not someone who should be mourned.”

Alec is silent. Jens absentmindedly rubs his scarred shoulder.

“I am sorry to put you through this every time, Alec.”

“Jens, you don’t have to apologise for a thing, okay? It’s normal. It’s human. He was your friend.”

“He was a Nazi.”

“Your grief doesn’t have to be logical, Liebling. It just is.”

Jens leans back into the chair, defeated. “Every year it is the same. Every year I know we have achieved something commendable for the people, and every year I grieve him.” He continues when Alec doesn’t respond. “It is not regret. It is just…”

“Sadness.” Alec holds his gaze. “Your first friend at the Abteilung, Jens. Your partner. Your mentor. You trusted him.”

“I should have known.”

“You did. In the end. You made sure he paid for those crimes.”

“Then why do I feel such _sorrow_?” His voice cracks, and Alec’s heart hurts for him. He wants to take him away from all this, far away, away to the right sea. Jens lowers his stare to their entwined fingers. “He was vile. A monster. I did the right thing. I-” A pause. “I _hate_ him.”

“I know.”

“I hate him,” Jens repeats, murmuring to himself. “I hate him. I-” he repeats it until he can’t, until Alec draws him in his arms and feels his collar become wet with tears. Until Jens is so exhausted Alec is all that’s holding him up, until his fingers begin to ache from where he’s clenched them in his lover’s shirt.

Alec doesn’t whisper empty platitudes. They have never had time for empty platitudes.

*

That night, after the cold tea and the silence, when they lie in bed together, Jens tells him.

He tells him in whispers. Hans-Dieter Mundt shook his hand in university, threw an arm around his shoulders at his first Party meeting, taught him where to put his fingers on his first gun.

At one point, Jens takes Alec’s hand and presses it into his shoulder. “He saved my life.”

“Hmm?”

“The bullet went right through. Into the American.” Jens closes his eyes. Alec can’t. “He stitched it up himself.”

“Oh Jens…”

It’s over, Alec has to remind himself. The whole sinister plan had crumbled around his very ears. The right man died. The decent man lives. It haunts them now, it will haunt them for a long time coming, he knows. He knows.

But it’s over.

**Four**

Sometimes, this reality becomes a little too difficult. And sometimes, Alec misses Liz.

He loves Jens. God, does he love Jens. But sometimes, in their bed, Jens in his arms, Alec will close his eyes and dream of another life.

A life in a little English flat, with a little library job, and little arguments about his drinking habits. He smells burnt toast and water left on the stove too long, he feels soft, long hair against his bare chest. He hears a higher voice. It’s a life away from memories of Hans-Dieter Mundt, and the GDR. And Jens.

He hates himself for it. For missing her when he has something so special. It’s a secret he has tried to bury so, so deep. A yearning he can never push far enough.

It’s a secret he’s failed to bury.

The first time Jens was quiet at breakfast, his words fleeting, Alec found out he’d called out another name in his sleep.

Jens understood, of course, Jens always understood. But there was a pained look in his eyes and Alec had caused it, and no reassurance could assuage the guilt that had settled almost permanently in his chest.

“-Lec, Alec, Alec-”

“Hmm, what?”

He snaps from his musings suddenly. They’re sat on the couch, Jens’ legs folded with a heavy book in his lap. He shoots Alec an amused look. Alec smiles back sheepishly.

“Where is your mind, Love?”

Alec sinks further into the couch, forgetting about the girl. “I want to take you out to dinner.”

Jens raises an eyebrow, and sometimes it’s so easy to forget his lover had been the best interrogator in the Abteilung. But that was before, and this is now, and Jens has mercy on him and lets it go.

“Changretta’s?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.”

Jens doesn’t respond for a moment. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, but his smile is still the same.

“Okay,” he replies, and Alec can’t help but feel like he’s failed some terrible test.

*

Jens is wearing that dinner jacket again. It’s a dark blue, hugging his shoulders to his hips like he was born into it. The top two buttons of his shirt are fashionably undone, and Alec enjoys the way the amber lighting paints his pale skin in all the shades of gold.

The wine tastes too sweet on his tongue. He watches casually as Jens takes a small bite out of his tiramisu, eyelids fluttering shut for a moment as the coffee melts on his tongue. The younger man makes a delighted sound, tongue cheekily darting to lick the dessert from his lower lip.

“You are being a little obvious, Alec,” Jens jokes, dimple flashing.

Alec rolls his eyes and starts on his cheesecake. “We should have gotten these takeaway,” he whispers, winking. He enjoys the subtle blush working its way up the smooth lines of his lover’s neck.

“You are being rather devious tonight, Mister Leamas,” he responds just as quietly.

“I just really like you.”

Jens laughs, and for a little while, Alec’s previous discomfort fades.

*

It doesn’t last.

They’re walking home, shoulder to shoulder, when Jens asks,

“Are you okay, Love?”

It’s innocuous enough. It’s Jens being his usual attentive, wonderful self. Alec smiles sideways at him.

“Mmm.”

“You seem distracted.”

_I’ve been thinking about Liz._

“It’s just been a long day.”

Jens’ eyebrows are drawn together. Concern. A warm hand brushes against Alec’s.

“Alec…”

 _Breathe._ But it’s so hard. Because Jens, beautiful Jens, is concerned about him. Cares about him. Loves him unconditionally. And he’s thinking about Liz.

The guilt floods his veins. It’s the same guilt every single time. His breath hitches. They’re almost home; the flat is just around the corner past the fleeting orange beeches.

“I’m sorry.”

Jens is silent. He knows.

“Jens. Jens, say something.” He stops walking, fingers gentle around Jens’ wrist, pulling the other man towards him in the dark.

Jens tilts his chin, and there’s something terrible in his eyes.

“It’s okay, Love,” it’s barely a whisper, “I understand.”

Alec shakes his head in frustration. “Christ Jens, I don’t want you to _understand_ ,” he looks around quickly. They have to be careful. Alec frowns. “I want you to yell at me. I want you to be angry.”

Jens blinks up at him. He looks so fragile.

“It’s okay to miss her, Alec. I cannot be frustrated with you for missing her.”

“Yes, but-” he lets go, stumbling back a step. Jens doesn’t move. “I – I-”

Silence. The wind seems to be eating up his voice.

Jens just shakes his head. “Let’s go home, Love.”

“I loved her.”

He doesn’t know why he says it. Something dims in that bright gaze and Alec wishes he’d never spoken.

“I know.”

But he can’t stop know. He’s so close. He – he has to.

“I think about her sometimes.” A pause. His voice cracks. “Sometimes when I’m with you.”

“I know.”

Alec thinks his heart is splintering.

“Why are you okay with this?”

“Let’s go home, Alec.”

“No.”

A moment passes between them. It’s heavy, full of broken promises and trust stitched together with old thread. Jens turns away from him, and starts walking.

Alec raises his voice. “Why are you okay with this?” No one hears them in the dark. “Jens-”

The German spins on his heel.

“Do you think this is easy for me, Alec?”

Alec can’t find his voice. Jens’ hands hug his elbows, arms drawn tightly around himself. His words are soft.

“To know that if she were here, right now, you would choose her over me?” _No,_ he wants to yell, but Jens doesn’t let him. “To know I will always compete with a dead woman?”

The world halts for a second. Alec watches Jens walk away. He doesn’t stop him.

*

They don’t speak until the next morning.

Alec couldn’t make himself follow Jens home. He’d sat out in the cold smoking those rubbish Lucky Strikes until the sun rose over the white horizon, thinking about how Jens slept alone in their bed. Full of fear, and doubt, and disappointment.

When Alec finally pushes his key in and draws open the door, Jens is quietly making breakfast in the kitchen.

A fleeting smile comes his way, along with the smell of freshly baked bread. Something is simmering in the pan, and the chopping board is piled with greens. Jens must have been up for a while. Alec is silent as he watches the other man work, apron loosely tied around his waist, sleeves rolled up. He’s pouring coffee into the mugs.

“I wouldn’t,” his voice has taken all night to come back, “I wouldn’t have chosen her over you. Not then, not now. I love her, but I love you. I love you.”

Jens’ hands tremble, ever so slightly. A drop of coffee spills onto the counter.

“I love you, Liebling. Always and forever.”

It’s enough.

**And one**

“Are you going to tell me where we are going?”

England is just as stale and dreary as Alec remembers. It’s an improvement in the summer, of course, and he’s hardly been one for English country life anyway. He winks conspiratorially at his passenger, pulling the rental car into a small dirt path off the main road.

“Patience, Liebling.”

Jens rolls his eyes, resting his forehead against the cool window. He watches the fading shrubbery slink past, patches of green and yellow with a blue, blue backdrop.

“It is beautiful. I never remembered it being like this as a child.”

Alec nods, loosening his fingers from around the leather wheel. The road becomes a touch smoother.

“No one remembers this England,” he mutters, weaving carefully around the dry green lands. It feels endless. “Shrubbery isn’t really why we’re here though.”

Jens huffs a quiet laugh. “I did not think you bought me a fake passport to show me some trees, Alec.”

“No,” he smiles to himself, “not trees.”

They drive for another few minutes before the bushes break, and the dirt road becomes softer, moister, and the sun glares right through the windshield of the car.

Suddenly, on the other side, a deep blue eats up the scenery. Like the brush strokes of a hasty painter, it goes light blue, dark blue, gold. The sky, the sea, the sand. The most beautiful sea Alec knows.

He pulls the car into park. Jens hasn’t said a word.

“Is this the right sea?”

That lovely little smile is all he needs.

_Du, ich, das Meer._

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Years Eve, FallaciousPuns


End file.
